The Little Red Book
by Solsbury Girl
Summary: A private moment with Jack and Ianto. A little fluffy comfort on a cold and snowy night. And don't forget Owen. Don't ever forget Owen.


**The Little Red Book**

Ianto walks up behind Jack, who is looking out of the window across Cardiff Bay. The night is dark and bleak. With one hundred percent cloud cover, there's no starlight or moonlight to brighten the evening. And it is raining. Ianto has persuaded a cold, drenched, dispirited Jack to come in off the roof top. But he can't stop the man on the inside from looking out. Forever standing, staring, looking out. It is as if he is waiting for something or someone. But they both know he isn't waiting. He is missing, remembering. There is nothing Ianto can do to make it better. He too hurts. Somehow, by an unspoken agreement, they take it in turns to support each other. Tonight, Jack needs Ianto.

Jack's eyes are dull when he turns to Ianto, feeling the young man's arms encircle his waist. He tilts his head so that it rests against Ianto's shoulder. Ianto can see that his eye lashes are still wet, even though it has been half an hour since he'd coaxed the captain down from the roof.

"Bath water is hot," says Ianto, gently. Jack doesn't seem to hear him.

"Come on Jack. Let's get you out of these wet things." Jack had been completely unresponsive when they'd first come down. Now, at least, he is showing some signs of awareness. Ianto moves round in front of him, partly obliterating Jack's view of the bay, and starts to unbutton the light blue cotton shirt.

"I can do it, I'm not a child," Jack snaps, brushing Ianto's hands away. But his fingers are trembling too much to allow him to undo the buttons. Wordlessly, but with authority, Ianto pushes Jack's hands down to his sides and takes over. This time, Jack is passive and allows Ianto to remove his shirt, which the Welshman drops unceremoniously on the wooden floor, before taking Jack gently by the hand and leading him to the bathroom. The lights are low, and the room smells faintly of … Jack can't quite identify it.... the sea perhaps, but not the smell you get standing down by the bay. No, it is lighter, brighter, warmer and speaks of golden sand and the blue skies of his boyhood. It reminds him of his mother and father. It is very comforting. He sinks into the warm embrace of the water and sighs, allowing himself to let go just a little.

Ianto places a towel on the radiator to warm up and leaves Jack to his bath. Alone in his living room, he opens the red notebook once more and reads a little more from it. In accordance with its instructions, he goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on for tea, not coffee. The book is emphatic on that point.

He hears Jack emerging from the bathroom, sees the towel wrapped around his waist, hair at sixes and sevens from being towelled dry. "Better?" asks Ianto.

"Warmer," replies Jack, not quite answering the question Ianto asks. They both know it. Ianto chooses not to pursue it.

"Why don't you get into bed?" asks Ianto. "You haven't rested properly in days."

Jack is about to protest, but Ianto silences him. "It doesn't matter if you can't, or won't, sleep. Just rest for a while. I'll bring us in something to eat. And no, I don't care if you aren't hungry either. I'll cook it, it's up to you if you eat it. It's OK." He regrets saying anything is OK as soon as the words leave his lips but he can't take them back now.

Jack looks as if he is about to argue but suddenly the fight leaves his eyes and he nods, turning towards the bedroom.

Ianto returns to the kitchen, where he again looks at the little red book. "Funny," he mutters to himself. "I never knew that." His smile was genuine for the first time that day. "Tomatoes on toast it is, then." He carefully places two pieces of bread into the toaster and then cuts some tomatoes in half and puts them in the microwave with some butter, salt and pepper. They'd be better cooked in a frying pan but he doesn't want to leave Jack alone for too long. By the time the toast is done, the tomatoes are cooked through to a nicely soft consistency, with plenty of seasoned, buttery juice. He heaps the result onto the toast and then puts some in for himself. He takes the first round through on a tray to Jack, who is propped up in bed. Although the television is on, he isn't watching it. Ianto suspects it is only a ploy to avoid speaking.

For the first time that day, Ianto sees a little spark of pleasure in Jack's eyes as he offers him the very simple meal. As Ianto puts the tray on Jack's knees, Jack reaches out, touches his hand and says "Thank you." Much to Ianto's surprise, Jack actually picks up the knife and fork and begins to eat, slowly but with obvious enjoyment.

Ianto returns to the kitchen to pick up his own tray. He takes another look into the little red book. "Ah, yes," he murmurs, and switches the kettle back on. He's forgotten about the tea. As he puts the tea into the teapot, and rummages around in the drawer for the tea strainer, he turns another page in the book. He nods. "Not wrong, not wrong," he mutters appreciatively to himself, under his breath.

He goes into the bathroom, and retrieves a bottle from the back of the cabinet. It is marked "Jack". Ianto looks closely at it, remembering when Owen had given it to him. The doctor's spidery handwriting on the label tears at Ianto's heart and he chokes back a sob. Ianto spoons two level tablespoons of the clear liquid into Jack's tea. He contemplates one for luck, but checking the red book again, decides against it.

He goes back to the bedroom, and sits on top of the covers with his own supper. "Here's your tea." he passes the cup to Jack, who takes it gratefully.

The television switches to an episode of the new comedy show. Jack changes channels without consulting with Ianto. Neither is in the mood for comedy. Jack flips channels and finds nothing he wants. He switches the television off and opts for an oldies station on the radio. Ianto takes both trays back to the kitchen, pleased to see that Jack has finished off his meal and drunk his tea. It is the first thing he can recall Jack eating in days. He can't be bothered to wash up, the dishwasher still isn't working, so he simply piles the crockery into the sink, squirts some washing up liquid on it and runs warm water on top of it.

He returns to the bedroom, undressing and tossing his clothes casually on the chair. Jack's wet clothes are already churning away in the washing machine. Ianto is very aware of how subdued Jack is; he undresses without Jack making a single comment. He pulls back the covers and gets into bed. Jack pulls the covers back up over them both and, for the first time in days, opens his arms and holds Ianto. But Ianto knows that Jack isn't giving comfort, he is taking it. But that's OK. Anything Ianto can offer that helps Jack is OK.

Ianto reaches out with one hand and grabs his book. He is reading Madame Bovary. The two men settle down, Ianto reading, Jack staring at the ceiling. Eventually, Jack's eyelids start to droop, heavy with sleep. Jack slips down further into the bed and nestles comfortably within the pillows. "Ianto?" he asks, drowsily. "How did you know about the tomatoes on toast?"

Ianto does a double take. "Er, well, you've always liked them that way."

"Liar," says Jack, without rancour. "You've never cooked them for me before, we've never eaten them together. How did you know?"

"Know what, exactly?" Ianto asks for clarification while he wonders what to say.

"How did you know that my mother used to cook those for me when I wouldn't eat anything else? And how did you know about the scents you are using in the house tonight? Things that I've never told you. Walking into the bathroom was like being back in Boeshane for a wonderful moment. And how did you know what dose to use of the sedative you slipped in my tea?"

Ianto smooths back the damp hair from Jack's forehead. "Ah. I'm not supposed to tell."

"Not tell about what?"

"Not tell about the little red book."

Jack forces his eyes back open. "You've got a little red book? What's that go to do with anything?"

Ianto smiles, "Hang on," he says and goes to the kitchen to fetch his little red book. He returns to the bedroom. "I guess it doesn't really matter if I tell. Gwen gave it to me. Owen had given it to her for safekeeping. Only to be passed on in the … the....event of ..." his voice broke. Jack reaches out a supporting hand. It will soon be his turn to take care of Ianto. But for tonight, Ianto regains himself quickly. Today is Jack's turn to grieve. Today is Jack's turn to be supported. But Ianto's turn is coming again. Quickly. They both feel it.

Jack picks up the little red note book. On the cover is written, in Owen's unmistakable handwriting, 'Jack Harkness. User's Manual'. He smiles and opens it. It is a thin volume crammed with all the information that Dr Owen Harper has amassed over the years about Jack Harkness. The things that Jack likes, dislikes, things to which he is allergic – which boils down to an alien race from Quantico Seben, and then only if it involves tongues, but nonetheless deadly for that. It contains what Owen has gleaned of Jack's family and social history, his boyhood on the Boeshane peninsular. 'Ah,' thinks Jack, 'Trust Ianto, he managed to interpret this and find bath oil that somehow mimicked the scent of home.....'

He realizes he is in danger of crying, of maybe losing it completely. Although his home and childhood are centuries in the future, and a hundred years in the past, his thoughts in the last few days have turned often to his mother and father. He understands that it is a desire, a need for comfort that can't be fulfilled, but he is feeling lost and alone, despite Ianto's loving presence. He has to maintain his leadership for the sake of the remainder of the team, but right now home seems a really attractive place to be. He yawns, and then turns more pages, scanning the tiny black handwriting.

"Oh, so that's what you've slipped in my tea. And I thought I was the master of that. I trust you used the correct dosage? More than that can have a pretty bad outcome. Owen killed me more than once with it."

Ianto smiles. "I just did what it said in the User's Manual."

"Not many people bother to follow instructions," comments Jack.

Ianto takes the little red book away from Jack, who is almost asleep now. "I'd never have thought that Owen had it in him," says Ianto, switching off the radio and putting aside Madame Bovary. "To take the time to write down all the things he knew about you, all the things he did for you, all the things it might take someone else to help you through."

Jack looks up at Ianto. "I think maybe we all underestimated Owen. He couldn't, or wouldn't, show himself on the outside. But he was always there for all of us." Jack falls silent. Ianto thinks he is finally asleep. But he is wrong. Jack rubs his eyes, fighting off the inevitable slide into unconsciousness. "Ianto?" he asks.

"Yes, love?"

"Would you fetch my coat for me please?"

"Jack, you cannot go out now, you must stay here, in bed and sleep. It wouldn't be safe, not now, not after..."

Jack smiles at him. "It's OK, I just want to show you something. Please?"

Ianto does Jack's bidding and brings the military greatcoat from where it is hanging in the hall, dripping.

Jack reaches into a dry, inside, pocket. He feels what he is looking for and smiles. He grasps it, and brings it out. It is a little red book. On the cover, in a familiar spidery handwriting, it says "Ianto Jones. User's Manual."

Ianto sits down heavily on the bed. Jack opens his arms to him. This time, as he falls asleep, Jack is able to give as well as to receive. "Oh Jack," whispers Ianto. "I miss them so."

**End**

* * *

No prizes for guessing that I just watched Fragments and Exit Wounds, back to back, for the first time since they were first aired.


End file.
